


A Moment Stolen

by pidgecommish (bosspigeon)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Marriage, Old Men In Love, Rorie Lavellan - Freeform, Rorie's mother is a force of nature, Weddings, pavellan - Freeform, rorian, this is unrepentant sappy nonsense and i won't apologize for it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 13:30:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12705972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bosspigeon/pseuds/pidgecommish
Summary: Dorian and Rorie steal some time for themselves the night before their wedding.





	A Moment Stolen

Dorian turns the lock on the door with a decisive click, and heaves an overly dramatic sigh of relief, because of  _ course _ he does. Still, this mild taste of his familiar theatrics is almost overwhelmingly endearing when it’s been so long since they’ve been together.

Rorie can do little more than lounge across his bed, fairly sinking into the luxuriously soft mattress that seems to sap away each and every ache from the day— or rather, the day before. He can’t be sure of the time, but he does know it’s technically morning now, the graceful Seleny skyline quiet under cover of darkness and daubed with the sleepy grey of a coming dawn. He’s hardly had time to enjoy the city’s many beautiful sights (constantly lauded by Josephine with fondness) what with all the preparations.

He swears he’s seen more of Seleny’s catering businesses and flower shops than any of its famous statuary and architecture, hopes he has time to enjoy it once all this silly opulence is over.

The bed dips, his reverie breaks, and he looks up at the man for whom he’s suffering all of said silliness. Dorian looks a bit worn as well, but he’s smiling all the same, and Rorie feels his cheeks ache a bit and realizes he hasn’t stopped since his beloved entered the room. Funny thing, that.

“Ah, there you are,” Dorian teases, settling down against the truly  _ ridiculous  _ mound of pillows piled against the intricately carved headboard. He reaches out and traces two fingers over the familiar path of the Inquisitor’s vallaslin. “I was afraid I’d have to dive into the Fade and fetch you myself.”

“Again?” Rorie chuckles, leaning into the soft touch. “How many times would that be?”

“Far too many, amatus,” he says, and even though he’s smiling, there’s a touch of heaviness that falls over him at that. Rorie can practically see him force it down, and his smile returns to his eyes again. “And I’d do it again and again.”

“You don’t have to butter me up, vhenan,” he says, to lighten the mood a bit more, rolling over to tuck himself against Dorian’s side, “you already have me.”

“Not yet,” says the magister, kissing the top of Rorie’s head. His arms wind around him so easily, remember the shape of his body even after so long apart. He melts into the touch, almost embarrassed by how readily, how helplessly, he sinks into Dorian’s arms. He’s far too old to still feel so…  _ squishy _ around this man. Dorian goes on, and there’s a touch of mischief in his tone as he holds on a bit tighter. “I won’t have you in my evil magister clutches until after the wedding. Then you’re mine forever!  _ Mua-ha-ha _ and all that.”

Rorie cranes his head back to look at Dorian, and, of course, he’s twirling his mustache. When he catches Rorie looking, he grins like a fool, all bright teeth and deep laughter lines.

They both burst out laughing, long and loud, mad belly laughs they can’t quite help. They try to silence themselves, for fear of waking the posh little inn’s other guests, or being discovered by Josephine or Maevaris, or— ancestors forbid, Rorie’s mother— but they can’t quite manage it, spurred towards giddiness by exhaustion and anticipation in equal measure. They cling to one another and laugh until tears prick their eyes and their stomachs ache, and after a while they find themselves face-to-face on their sides, foreheads touching and legs tangled together, letting out wheezy little giggles in between uneven breaths.

“We’re getting married today,” Rorie whispers with a breathless sort of wonder, as if it’s only just hit him.

“We are,” Dorian affirms with a kiss to his forehead. He’s smiling a bit oddly himself, like he can’t quite believe it’s true. “Today, we’ll be husbands.” He laughs again, softer this time, and kisses Rorie again, once on either cheek.

“Husbands,” Rorie echoes, wide-eyed, beaming. “You’ll be my husband.”

“And you mine, amatus.” Another kiss, to the tip of his nose. “Quite the scandal, so I’ve heard.”

“I can imagine,” Rorie snorts. “The so-called Herald of Andraste and a Tevinter magister? What will the neighbors think?”

“Well,” Dorian says, huffing as if offended, but smiling still, “the  _ Herald _ has saved the world several times, and has the Divine in his pocket—”

“Please don’t ever say that to Vivienne.”

“Not to mention several influential families and, oh yes, a loyal army or two at his command, so I think they’ll just have to deal with it, don’t you?”

Rorie laughs, and is beset by yet another kiss, to the corner of his open mouth. He gasps a little, pleasantly surprised, and returns it with a fond little bunt of the nose. They exchange kisses back and forth, sleepily, with no real direction or intent beyond simply enjoying one another, relishing the company they’ve been so long without.

Something occurs to Rorie, once they’ve managed to wriggle their way underneath the blankets, curled around each other so completely it’s almost as if they’ll never find a way to part again. They will, of course, they still have so much work to do, on different ends of the world, it feels like sometimes, but important. They’ll spend more time apart than they will together, and they’ll go more and more grey, but after today… after today they’ll do it as husbands. Rorie twists a strand of Dorian’s long hair around his fingers, admires the glimmer of strands of silver in the dim light of the oil lamp on the bedside table. He almost forgets his little revelation, lost in the beauty of his soon-to-be spouse, the crinkles at his eyes, the dusting of grey in his mustache, the lines around his mouth.

He shakes his head, huffs another chuckle, and Dorian gives him a questioning look. “What is it, amatus?”

“Nothing, nothing… Just thought of something silly Josephine told me yesterday. Something about us seeing one another before the ceremony on our wedding day being “bad luck.” Some shem superstition, I suppose?”

Dorian tosses his head back, hair making a surprisingly graceless, tangling arc, given the magister’s usual dedication to looking austere and graceful in everything he does. “Ha!” He kisses Rorie again, cups his cheek and runs a thumb over the edge of his own creases and lines of age and experience. “When have we ever had anything  _ but  _ bad luck, darling?”

Rorie laughs, tilts his head to press a soft kiss to the pad of Dorian’s thumb. “I don’t know, vhenan,” he says. “I can think of a few times.”

**Author's Note:**

> a commission for my friend ryuichifoxe on tumblr, involving her darling Rorie Lavellan~


End file.
